I've always tried not to get attached to places too because these changing fast and when they lose the look you have in the memories, it's as if I lost a part of them.
I am fascinated by everything that is old and dilapidated.
Maybe that's why the first place I thought of is the famous "Zero" Local Azzano S. Paolo (BG) closed just over a year. When 18 years have finally the chance to get Your own way, there is nothing better than to find a place you can call "home."
few weeks ago, on a quiet Sunday afternoon I decided to come back to take some pictures (risked being lynched by an old man in the area, according to which cross a rusty gate is "crime").
For the many who have lived those four walls, these photographs will mean tears. For all others, perhaps, will be only a portrait of a decaying building impending demolition.
Like after an apocalypse, wandering in the courtyard outside the building I had the feeling that everything had been abandoned as quickly as possible. empty glasses of Havana Club, delivered and never read newspapers, and even the tiles in there who were working there, scattered among the bushes.
finally arrive at the entrance: the door wide open, a sign that someone before me has wanted to go in there to look around, pushed by an uncontrollable nostalgia (or more likely now building is the residence of some bum).
After much wavering along the driveway, I start walking towards the entrance with caution, as were entering someone's home without permission. Arriving in what was the table lists, expecting to see emerge at any moment an angry bouncer. But nothing. Only a surreal silence and pitch darkness over the entry corridor.
A lump in the throat of those who take away
every word and went back.
I am fascinated by everything that is old and dilapidated.
Maybe that's why the first place I thought of is the famous "Zero" Local Azzano S. Paolo (BG) closed just over a year. When 18 years have finally the chance to get Your own way, there is nothing better than to find a place you can call "home."
few weeks ago, on a quiet Sunday afternoon I decided to come back to take some pictures (risked being lynched by an old man in the area, according to which cross a rusty gate is "crime").
For the many who have lived those four walls, these photographs will mean tears. For all others, perhaps, will be only a portrait of a decaying building impending demolition.
Like after an apocalypse, wandering in the courtyard outside the building I had the feeling that everything had been abandoned as quickly as possible. empty glasses of Havana Club, delivered and never read newspapers, and even the tiles in there who were working there, scattered among the bushes.
finally arrive at the entrance: the door wide open, a sign that someone before me has wanted to go in there to look around, pushed by an uncontrollable nostalgia (or more likely now building is the residence of some bum).
After much wavering along the driveway, I start walking towards the entrance with caution, as were entering someone's home without permission. Arriving in what was the table lists, expecting to see emerge at any moment an angry bouncer. But nothing. Only a surreal silence and pitch darkness over the entry corridor.
A lump in the throat of those who take away
every word and went back.
